


Itunes Shuffle Challenge

by YouLookGoodInLeather



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Additional Tags Above Individual Chapters, Angst, Drabbles, Hate Sex, Love/Hate, M/M, Pre-Canon, Shorts, Shuffle Challenge, Smut, Soulmates, Various themes, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 18:20:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12823347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouLookGoodInLeather/pseuds/YouLookGoodInLeather
Summary: Itunes Shuffle Challenge:Take iTunes (or similar), set to shuffle, take 10 songs and write a short in the time it takes the song to play.Chapter One: Rhycien (Take Shelter by Years & Years)Chapter Two: Cazriel (Take Me to Church Violin/Cello/Bass Cover by Simply Three)Chapter Three: Coming Soon





	1. Take Shelter (Rhycien)

 

 

Lucien has never had a war buried into his skin before. **  
**

It feels good. (Like crying yourself out into bedsheets and silence)

It feels like his calling. (He’ll find out he’s right decades later when a man of gold and roses lays siege to his flesh with the rage of centuries spent fighting himself)

It feels like love. (After all, what other kind has he ever known?)

The heir to the Night Court visits irregularly. He comes without announcement, without forewarning, a spectre of shadow among the twilight of sunset. He is black and bleak and framed by a canopy of omnipresent red leaves. He makes the world of autumn, so dull without him, a painting.

But his true artistry is revealed only within the bedchamber. Beyond their four walls, shared for a snatching of hours, there is no war, no human revolution, no mass genocide led by Lucien’s own father.

He’s too young to fight in the war himself.

All he can do is permit its golden child to pour out his heartache into his forming muscles, his unmarked skin. (When he comes to lose his eye, he will no longer look like peace. It will hurt his body, yes, but it will hurt him more to think he is no longer a body of refuge for his adolescent shadow).

He can scream into the pillows, cry out against the dresser, and come splayed out upon the balcony, but no matter what vulgarities he births upon his tongue, they all mean one thing:

Take it. Take  _me._

_Let_ me _be your shelter._

 


	2. Take Me to Church (Cazriel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Sort of slut-shaming / non-Cazriel dub-con

**  
**‘ _They’re finally going to do it,_ ’ the rest of the camp whispers.  _‘They’re finally going to kill each other._ ’ Azriel and Cassian can hear it all as they storm through the other fledglings, as they brush past each eager spectator and well-meaning protester. The younger strides well ahead of the other, fury twisting his sharp features into a mirror of his blades, a mirror of the harsh burns wrapping his arms and fingers. Those long fingers twitch by his side as he marches. **  
**

He’s been anticipating this for a long, long time.

‘ _Who started it?’_  Others whisper around them.

‘ _Who do you think will win?_ ’

_‘My money’s on the bastard.’_

_‘No way. The monster will kill him in a second.’_

_‘I think they’ll both end up dead.’_

_‘The instructors will kill them both anyway if they find out.’_

The last comment is a lie. It is far from uncommon for fledgling Illyrians to challenge one another to duels, unarmed or otherwise. The games for survival start long before the blood trials, and besides, the instructors don’t want too many of them to make it that far- More bodies to clean up at the end.

The pair vanish into the woods, lost among snowstorms and trees. None dare follow. Though they may be unsure who will win, they all know for certain that to interrupt will bring about their own death.

They’ve seen them fight.

They know there’s something wrong with them, to be able to fight like that (like they have less than nothing to lose).

The two challengers pay them no attention. Though they are not looking at one another, they are the other’s only focus. They continue trekking until they are well out of sight.

“Fucking  _finally_ ,” Cassian growls. “You’ve been pissing me off all week.”

“Really?” Azriel drawls in arrogant airs, peeling off his black gloves. He wears them at all times except when fighting, and Cassian doubts it is because he is cold. Even he can’t help staring at the mangled flesh of his hands. “Can you imagine how it’s been for me, watching you yap around Rhysand’s ankles?”

“Says the one cosying up to all the instructors. How many of their dicks have you sucked by now?”

Azriel tilts his head to one side. “Five. No, six.” He gives a cold smile. “Four to go. Unless I find the one paid to kill me by Father Dearest first.”

“And then?”

“And then,” he says with a slow, measured tempo, like he knows this well, like he’s done it all before, “I’ll kill them.”

Cassian barks a laugh. “You arrogant prick.”

“Such hypocrisy.”

“You-” He does not finish, because a smaller, defter body has him pinned against a large fir and they are kissing. They are yanking at one another’s clothes and ripping free leathers and fabric to dig down to flesh, to heated, rising blood, and ragged breathing. It is a kind of drowning, one bitten frozen by the frost and snow. One flooded by the the heat pooling in their stomachs, groins, cheeks. It is difficult to breathe; They are warriors, so they respond by stealing the other’s breath. 

Turning the suffocation against them.

The winner is the last to come.

 


End file.
